The Big Bamboo (12 page)

A third-floor window was open. Sheer white curtains fluttered out. Inside, a young man sat in a bathrobe and tapped on a typewriter. A pencil was clutched sideways in his teeth.

His four roommates from the Vistamax props department were moving in all directions.

Mark had one foot on a chair, lacing a shoe. “Ford, aren’t you coming?”

“Just give me a minute.”

Pedro came out of the bathroom, rubbing wet hair with a towel. “You better get moving. We have to leave soon.”

Ford took the pencil out of his mouth. “Do we even know where this party is yet?”

“No.”

“Then why the rush?” Tap, tap, tap…

“Because Dallas is going to call any second with the location and we’ll have to leave immediately.”

“I don’t understand how we’re getting into these parties,” said Ford, standing up from his typewriter. “They’re the most exclusive in town. Some
actors
can’t get in.”

“Dallas likes us,” said Ray.

“Dallas Reel?” said Ford. “I still haven’t figured out what that guy does.”

“He’s important is what he does,” said Mark.

“But he just seems to be hanging around props like he doesn’t have a job.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” said Pedro. “He’s huge. One of the biggest third executive producers in this town.”

“Been in the credits of at least sixty films,” added Mark.

“What for?”

“Gets the Glicks their coke.”

Rrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnnngggggggg!

“That’s Dallas…Hello?…Right…I know the way…See you in ten…”

“Where is it?” asked Mark.

“Melrose and La Brea,” said Pedro. “Launch party for a new fragrance by that chick who sings. They used cyclone fence to seal the alley behind an Afghan restaurant. We enter through the head shop next door. The password is
mellifluous
.”

Two husky men with thick, folded arms stood in front of a head shop on Melrose. Limos and luxury cars cycled up the curb. Skinny models and older men with ponytails got out. The bouncers parted.

A group of young men walked down the sidewalk. The bouncers closed ranks. Pedro stepped up.

“Mellifluous.”

The guards remained stone.

“I said,
mellifluous
.”

Nothing.

Pedro looked back at the rest of the gang. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

A cell phone rang. “Hello?…Oh, hi, Dallas…Yeah, we’re out front. That’s the problem. We can’t—…I see, thanks…” He closed the phone and turned to the gang. “They changed the password. The first one was to throw off uninvited riffraff.”

Pedro stepped up to the bouncers again.

“Pandemic.”

They parted. The guys went inside and walked down a long aisle of floor-standing hookahs, hand-blown bongs, and the new enviro-friendly California hybrids that plugged into the wall and vaporized instead of burned. The service corridor in the back of the shop connected to the Kebab-A-Go-Go. An usher in a bow tie opened a door. The alley behind the restaurant was filled with laser beams, flavored oxygen dispensers and a curry funk. Models smoked green-and-purple cigarettes. The gang spotted Dallas and waved. Dallas waved back. He was wearing a cranberry silk jogging suit, and he slowly worked his way through the crowd, pulling tiny glassine envelopes from his fanny pack and pressing them into the palms of his many friends.

“Hey, Dallas,” said Pedro. “Great party. Thanks!”

“It’s over. We have to get out of here.”

“But they’re barely getting started.”

Dallas shook his head. “Peaked a half hour before it opened. The
In Crowd
’s heading straight to the second address.”

They piled back in the Malibu and followed Dallas’s Ferrari on a treacherous, winding road up Laurel Canyon. Magnificent valley glimpses between the houses.

“Whose place are we going to?” asked Ford.

“Professional voice,” said Pedro.

“That deep, gravely narrator who does previews in the theaters for scary movies,” said Mark. “You know: ‘From the master of horror, a supernatural tale that’ll freak your shit!’”

“The Voice of God?” asked Ford.

“No. The number two guy who gets his leftovers,” said Pedro. “Television, too.”

They parked in a swarm of valets and went inside. Ford moved room to room on tentative legs. Strange music, stranger people. Caterers circulated with trays. Ford turned down a flute of champagne, but accepted the ostrich-meat canapé with water chestnut surprise. The postmodern living room had brushed steel surfaces and metal guy-wires.

Pedro was on a sofa, talking to an old man with a ponytail. “…But the carpenter is sympathetic. The actor mowed down his family gangland-style.”

“I’m married to it! Don’t change a comma!”

Ford needed air. He strolled onto the spacious balcony. Mark was at the railing talking to an aspiring actress whose unsymmetric mouth reminded him of Ellen Barkin. His cell phone was open. “Go ahead.”

“Uh, 555-1234.”

“I’ll call.”

She fled as Ford arrived at the railing and stared out over the luminous L.A. basin. “Feel like I’ve been here before.”

“This same view’s in practically every movie set here,” said Mark. “To flag location.”

Ford leaned over the rail and looked down. He straightened fast and took a queasy step back. “Whoa!”

“Pretty high, eh?” said Mark.

“We’re sticking off the side of the mountain. What’s holding us up?”

“Tall poles.”

Ford looked side to side at the neighboring residences. “Don’t they ever fall down?”

“All the time. Mud slides or weight overload from too many people at a party.”

They turned around and looked back through the balcony’s open sliding doors. A barrel-chested man leaned suavely against a baby grand, swirling a snifter of cognac. He had thick gray hair and a black blazer over a black turtleneck. Women in strapless evening gowns surrounded the piano and applauded quietly.

“Who’s that?” asked Ford.

“Our host.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Requests.”

“…The season finale of
Law and Order
you won’t want to miss!…”

Dallas came out on the balcony. “Just got the new address.”

They collected the gang and headed for the front door, past two old men with ponytails. “Just heard the stupidest script about a carpenter…”

Back to the car. Farther and faster up the mountain. Ford hit his blinker for a left on Mulholland. “Whose place now?”

“Former child star,” said Pedro. “But not a big one. You know by the fourth season how the original kids aren’t cute anymore and they bring in a younger relative?”

“Like cousin Oliver on
Brady Bunch
?”

“Right, but not him.”

They swung through a circular drive.

“Holy cow!” Ford stared up at the mansion. “If he wasn’t big, how can he afford a place like this?”

“Wrote a tell-all on the other child stars,” said Pedro. “Got nasty. A kid who played a dork in suspenders took a shot at him outside the Staples Center, so he was in demand again. Did the talk shows and some celebrity boxing, then another book on the shooting incident and spending the first book’s advance freebasing.”

They went inside. This one was much, much louder. The Guess Who.

Ford found himself talking to a man in a safari vest.

“No kidding?” said Ford. “A real paparazzo?”

The man nodded and popped the ceramic stopper off a Grolsch.

“…American woman, get away from me-heeeee!…”

“So how come you’re not taking pictures?” asked Ford. “The place is crawling with stars.”

The photographer took a swig. “People don’t realize it, but we all specialize.”

“Like what?”

“Actors leaving rehab, bandaged stars after nose jobs, telephoto work of celebs making out on yachts, stars who’ve let themselves go. One guy just did Brando. Had to sell his house.”

“What’s your specialty?”

“Getting Alec Baldwin to punch me for the out-of-court money.” He showed Ford his Rolex. “At least it’s steady.”

“I got a question,” said Ford. “The former child star standing over there who owns this place. Why does he have so many bodyguards?”

“They’re not bodyguards. They’re trainers. He pays them to keep him off drugs.”

“You’re kidding.”

The photographer shook his head. “He’s always trying to give them the slip. The main thing is for them not to let him go upstairs under any circumstances.”

“Why not?”

“That’s where everyone’s doing drugs.”

“How do you know?”

“Everyone knows. Every party in this town has a designated drug floor. Like a smoking section. Out of respect. Half of Hollywood is on a health jag; the other half is old school.”

Pedro ran into the kitchen. “Ford, quick! Follow me!”

Ford was halfway up to the second floor. “But I don’t want to do any drugs.”

“We’re not getting drugs,” said Pedro. “We’re getting a limo.”

He opened a bathroom door. Two naked women in an oversize Jacuzzi smoking opium. He closed the door. On to the den. He opened the door. Oak library shelves and a parchment globe of the neoclassical world containing crystal decanters. Someone was screaming down on the Persian throw rug. Six people restrained a thrashing man trying to take bites out of his own shoulders.
“The spiders!”

“Bad acid,” said Pedro.

“They’re chewing my eyes!”

He closed the door. Tino came over. “Limo yet?”

“Not yet…Wait. Hold everything…” Pedro pointed down the hall. “That looks like a promising lead.”

Dallas was knocking on the last door at the end of the hall. The guys walked up behind him. Dallas knocked again, harder.

An impatient voice from the other side: “Who is it!”

“Doctor Feelgood.”

Locks unbolted. The door opened three inches. The props guys caught a brief glimpse as Dallas passed a Baggie through the slit: Mel in undershorts with something attached to his nipples; Ian wearing nothing but white powder on his upper lip; an unconscious young woman on the bed, panties around one ankle. The door slammed shut.

“That girl looked like she was in trouble,” said Ford.

“Just partied too much,” said Dallas. “Or they put something in her drink. That’s the rumor going around.”

“What are they going to do to her?” asked Ford.

“Anything they want.”

“Shouldn’t we do something?”

“Somewhere else, yes, we should,” said Dallas. “But I’m sure she gave her consent before passing out.”

“What?”

“Every woman in this party would kill to trade places with her,” said Dallas. “She’s going to get a part out of this. A
speaking
part.” A beeper went off. Dallas looked down. “Gotta run.”

“I don’t know,” said Ford, looking at his friends. “I still think we should do something.”

“We are,” said Tino, knocking on the door.

“Who the fuck is it?”

“Mr. Glick, we work for you. The Vistamax limo. Do you still need it, because some other executives from the studio—”

“Take it! Jesus! Just leave us the fuck alone!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Glick. Thank you, sir.”

“We’re on!” said Ray. They ran back down the hall.

“I can’t stop thinking about that girl,” said Ford. “I have a bad feeling.”

They scampered down the stairs. A former child star dashed past them going up. He was tackled on the landing by a trainer. “Oh, no, you don’t!…”

Ford followed Pedro and the others to the front door. He heard something in passing. He turned around.

Two guys with highball glasses were shmoozing up a casting agent.

“…Started shooting today. Like
The Grifters
, but different. Probably the first decent script they’ve done all year.”

“Must have been a slip-up,” said the agent.

They laughed.

“Excuse me,” said Ford. “Are you talking about Vistamax?”

“Yeah. Unless you’re with them.”

More laughs.

“Where’s this movie set?”

“I don’t know,” said one of the highball guys. “Some place down south. Arkansas?”

“Alabama,” said Ford.

“As a matter of fact, you’re right. It is Alabama…Hey, how’d you know?”

Six A.M. Patient room 23. The sky started getting light outside.

Chi-Chi was snoring in his chair by the door. Coleman had gone back to crash at the Howard Johnson with Coltrane.

Serge was still sitting next to his granddad’s bed. Hadn’t slept a wink. Bloodshot eyes, head occasionally bobbing down, then jerking up, then slowly bobbing down again.

His granddad began coughing. “Little Serge, you still there?”

Serge scooted closer. “Yes.”

“I don’t feel so hot.”

“Want me to get a nurse?”

“I don’t know. I feel strange.” He began hacking again, then stopped and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. “What’s happening? Did someone turn off the lights? It’s so dark. I’m floating out of my body…”

Serge leaned forward and clutched his grandfather’s hand. “I’m here.”

“…There’s a tunnel, a bright light at the end…”

Serge gulped and squeezed the hand harder. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I…I’m walking toward the light now…It’s getting brighter. I hear beautiful music. I—”

The old man’s eyes closed, and his head fell to the side.

“Grandpa!” yelled Serge. “Nooooooo!”

The old man opened his eyes and grabbed the TV remote. “I was just fuckin’ with you.”

The TV changed channels. “Oh, good. A
Miami Vice
rerun. This is my favorite episode. Ted Nugent guest stars.”

Serge looked up at the set mounted on the wall. “Grandpa, that’s
60 Minutes.
”

“The series was never the same after they blew up Crockett’s Daytona. And don’t even get me started on the Sheena Easton story line…”

“Grandpa—”

“You read where they’re planning to build a Disney World around here? Just like the one in California…”

“Grandpa—”

“Little Serge. Hurry up and finish your breakfast.” He tried raising his head, IV tubes stretching. “We have to get hopping if we’re going to catch some fish.”